Page:Frank Owen - The Scarlett Hill, 1941.djvu/22

 coupled with cumquats which he purchased along the way. But Yuhan, content to drink in color and light, the magic of the night, ate nothing. She had no wish for food. Her cup of happiness was brimming over.

Before the door of an improvised shop, an aged man squatted in the dust. His face was like the sunburned earth of the Great Desert, so parched and blistered it had cracked into a thousand wrinkles, lines of venerable age on a face that was set like a mask. His beard was so long it nearly touched the ground, as he sat there; a straggling wisp-like beard, thin as the frame of its possessor, long and thin and flaked with patches of snow like East Mountain in late autumn. So deep-set was the seal of age on his face, the years passed him by, unable to work further havoc. Nevertheless his eyes were bright, small eyes that glowed from the caverns of his being as though the little beings in them were carrying lanterns. There was no darkness in his heart. For the eyes of his heart could survey the universe. His name was Visram, a man from India, Brother to the Night. The stars were windows through which he gazed to the world on the other side. Keen, indeed, was his vision.

"Come, Master," he implored, "your future for a few cash. If there is aught of good to come, I will tell it to you, so that by your good fortune you may be warmed twice."

Yuhan's heart skipped a beat. Tomorrow she would be the concubine of a Prince. After that—?

Yes, the future might be worth the telling.

"Venerable Uncle," she whispered, "may I listen?"